


The chamomile incident

by RabidRabbit



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Action/Adventure, Friendship, Jaskier is an awesome friend, Monster of the Week, Where did that comment about lovely bottoms come from?, non-graphic dead animals
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-10
Updated: 2020-03-10
Packaged: 2021-02-28 19:34:25
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,530
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23092666
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RabidRabbit/pseuds/RabidRabbit
Summary: There's no way Geralt could refuse to aid the inhabitants of a town plagued by some unknown entity. He just might have asked for a greater reward if he had known Jaskier would end up with great blackmail material before the day was over.
Comments: 6
Kudos: 71





	The chamomile incident

**Author's Note:**

> Well, here is my attempt at a PG version of events that could end in Jaskier rubbing chamomile onto Geralt's 'Lovely bottom'.

.

“Oh be honest Geralt, you love my company-” 

“Like a sore tooth.” 

“-just as much as you like my singing. Admit it, you frown and glare and grunt, but in the deepest, darkest corner of your heart, you _adore_ me.” 

“Dream on bard.” 

“Oh I do. Of _oh_ so many lovely, wonderful things. Like good ale, and hot baths, and ladies to share the sheets of a soft bed with. Not that I’m complaining, mind, but those things do start to feel like the fading dreams of long ago… Any chance of spending a night or two in a town? I know your wonderful witcher-y spine springs right back into shape after a night on the rocks, but mine bears the imprint of half a thousand stones.” 

“No one’s making you sleep on rocks.”

“Nope. But a certain someone is so very, very unwilling to share the details of his admittedly gruesome and tiresome work that a bard can not do anything but suffer for his craft. I can’t share your story with the world if you won’t give me more than ‘Hmmm. I killed it’ you know?” 

“Then don’t.” 

Most people would have taken that as the end of the conversation, or the end of the relationship perhaps. But Jaskier prided himself on not being ‘most people’ and he’d discovered by now that the witcher’s bark was far worse than his bite. 

The man cursed his presence, insulted his wits, his music, and his very personality so often that it had become something of a running gag between them. One of them would complain about the other’s various shortcomings, only to get back as good as he gave.   
People had drawn Jaskier aside often enough when they happened to be in a town or city, quietly asking if he needed saving or a place to hide, only to be met with a great laugh and a vehement ‘Thanks, but no thanks’, before he sauntered off, back to the witcher that seemed so very cruel to him. Those brave enough to keep watching would then witness one of the rare shared grins between the two. 

“We could spend a little money. I’ll even buy the first round if you like, get us some nice beds and a hot meal that consists of more than weeds and meat.” 

Jaskier knew that he would likely get his way if he kept nagging long enough, if only because Geralt wanted to be rid of his voice for a bit. So he kept at it, and bit down on his bottom lip to contain the triumphant smile when the witcher eventually did indeed give up on his noncommittal grunts and mumbled something about Roach needing a farrier anyway. 

So it was that they started following the first road they came across.   
Jaskier didn’t really care which way they went, there’d be towns in either direction if they kept walking long enough, but Geralt halted when they stepped on the well trodden mud, sniffing like a hound in search of prey. 

“We’ll go south.” he said eventually, turning Roach with a nudge of his heel and riding off, dragging his hood up over his hair as they went. 

“Following the scent of soap and potatoes are we?” Jaskier asked as he walked along, taking his lute from its case without missing a step. If they were going to be in a town soon, he’d likely get a chance at earning some income, and he’d prefer to have his fingers and vocal cords warmed and ready. 

“The scent of water. There’ll be a town if there’s a bridge or a crossing.” 

They came across fellow travelers now, riding or walking in either direction. Many stared at them as they passed, but most of the attention was on Jaskier for once, his voice and lute drawing their gazes more than Geralt’s face.   
If he preened a little at that realisation, well, the witcher would be the only one to notice, and he already knew the bard enjoyed being center stage.

They kept following the road, passing neat little fields of grain and pastures of lush green grass as wilderness gave way to tilled earth and tended land. Geralt kept sniffing the air, scrunching up his face every now and then as if he smelled something bad.   
Jaskier supposed it could very well be their own scent, even his very normal human nose could register their less-than-soapy aroma and it had gone beyond ‘rugged hero’ and into the realm of ‘roadside beggar’ quite a few days ago.

That thought left his head when he caught the first wisp of smoke and burned meat.   
It could have been someone camping out near the road, much as they themselves often did, but the smell kept coming back whenever the wind came their way, getting stronger every time until it itched and tingled in Jaskier’s nostrils. 

The road they followed did eventually meet the river that Geralt must have scented, a shallow little thing neither wide nor deep enough to warrant a bridge.   
The town on its banks reflected that, probably the most miserable collection of houses Jaskier had seen in quite a while.   
Even so, there’d no doubt be an inn, no roadside town would lack that most essential and profitable of businesses. 

There was also a massive pyre burning away.

Jaskier silently tucked his lute back into its case as he stepped up beside Roach, looking from witcher to fire and back. He couldn’t yet see what was being burned, but he knew Geralt would likely already be counting the number of armed people around it and judging the danger their weapons posed. Those strange eyes that so unnerved the folks they met did have their uses, other than being a great descriptor in his songs. 

“Are we going on or turning back?” he asked, squinting in an attempt to see what was happening. 

“We’ll continue on. They’re burning sheep and cattle, not people. Could be some sort of plague or curse.” 

“So much for a quiet night of pleasures then.” Jaskier mumbled as he trudged along, leaving all hopes for comfort and carnal activities behind. People burning their livelihood tended to be unwilling to pay for entertainment, and even more unwilling in all the other forms of enjoyment Jaskier’d been hoping for. 

His companion didn’t speak until they’d come close enough to the pyre to see the sweaty faces of the men and women dragging dead animals around, the townsfolk noticing them in return.

“Be silent and don’t fight me if I pull you up on Roach for a quick exit. They might be looking for a scapegoat.” 

Jaskier gulped and nodded.   
The only times he was allowed to ride were the times he would really, _really_ prefer to be somewhere else entirely, either riding in front of Geralt when they had to escape something that was beyond the witcher, or alone if the man needed him and his horse out of the way so he could kill in peace. 

They approached side by side, Jaskier pressed up close to Roach’s shoulder, keeping in step just shy of Geralt’s knee. One of the men flung a dead lamb into the flames before wiping his hands on his trousers and stepping onto the road, blocking their path. 

“There’s no crossing the river I’m afraid.” he said, flicking his eyes from bard to rider and back. “Something’s up with the water, you don’t want your feet in there, nor your horse’s.” 

“We were merely looking for a place to spend the night.” Geralt answered. “We need not cross the river, but I’d like to know what’s wrong with it.” 

“Beats me. Our sheep and cattle just started dying, one after the other. Grazing in the evening, already dead or breathing their last the following morning.” The man gestured to the piles of dead livestock, stiff furry corpses in all shapes and sizes.   
“No clue what’s wrong with them, but the river is full of dead fish and our stock of rainwater is running out. It’ll be ale and cider soon, and what are we going to do when those have gone too eh?” 

“Hmmm.” 

Geralt didn’t sound worried. Not any more than usual anyway, and Jaskier felt a stirrup bump his back as the witcher dismounted.   
He was just about ask what they were going to do when Roach’s reins were pushed into his hands with a grunted “Don’t let her graze or drink” after which he was completely ignored as if he were a very handsome tying post.

“Show me.” The witcher said to the man that had blocked their passage, not even the hint of a question in the two words as he gestured to the pile of dead beasts.

The farmer just shrugged and led them to the nearest corpse, a lamb barely half-grown, curls of wool just starting to fill out into a proper fleece.   
Jaskier watched as Geralt knelt down beside it, gloved hand taking hold of a stiffened leg to turn the beast over. More people started towards them, a circle quickly forming around farmer, witcher and bard, whispers and questions flitting through the air like little birds. 

The whispers turned to shouts of alarm when Geralt drew a dagger without warning, blade glinting in the sun as he cut the lamb open from jaw to balls. Weapons were drawn, the hooks and rakes that had been used to drag the animals around were raised, and Jaskier did the first thing he could think of to take people’s minds off their weapons and all the nasty things they could do with them. 

He dropped the reins and stepped up in front of Geralt and the lamb, hands raised in the air.

“Whoah whoah whoah! He won’t harm you! If anyone knows what’s going on it’s gonna be a witcher, right? Soooo…. let’s give my friend some space to work and we’ll see what he comes up with eh?” 

He dropped one hand on Geralt’s shoulder, squeezing a bit when the man tried to shrug him off immediately, and threw the woman that held a hoe right in his face his most disarming smile. It was the one he used after getting caught by angered fathers or when playing a difficult crowd, practiced endlessly in a mirror when he first started his profession. 

It seemed to work. The fear that had held the woman’s face in a tight grip lessened as his words sunk in, and the whispers started up again.

“A witcher?” 

“The very best and greatest amongst them my good woman! The saviour of many a town and damsel, Geralt of Rivia! The White Wolf himself has come to your lovely little town!” 

He would have gone on to introducing himself and maybe drop some lines from the most popular of his songs about their shared exploits if the witcher in question hadn’t interrupted. 

“It’s burned on the inside. Esophagus to intestines, there are blisters all over.” 

He tugged on a bit of _something_ to show what he meant, not that Jaskier would know the difference between healthy and burned sheep innards. The slaughter of their fresh-caught meals was very much Geralt’s share of the work, as was the catching itself, Jaskier much preferred hauling water and finding firewood. 

The villagers seemed to have less delicate souls though. They were more than happy to take a closer look, some even going to other beasts to check their insides in the same way while Jaskier pushed away from the witcher to avoid the drops of blood that went flying as someone snagged the bit of sheep intestine from his fingers with a bit too much force. 

“Right. That… sounds rather unpleasant actually. What does that kind of thing? Seems like a highly inefficient way to hunt.” 

“It is. Poisoning water like this might work in a stagnant pool, not in running water where you have to go looking for your prey all along the banks.”

The knife that had brought the problem to light was cleaned on the poor beast’s woolly flank before being sheathed again, the bright red smears matching the clotting blood sluggishly seeping from the long tear in its belly.   
The witcher got up and grabbed Roach’s reins from where they had fallen, shooting Jaskier an annoyed look upon finding them in the mud as he did, before turning back to the farmer. 

“Have you searched for the source?”

“No. We’ve rounded up the beasts that are still alive and have been collecting the dead ever since we found the first corpses. We know what happens when you leave ‘em rotting in the field. The only thing worse than monsters in the woods are monsters on your own land, we can’t go running about searching for clues before getting rid of the corpses properly.”

That earned the man a look of surprised respect, even if Jaskier was probably the only one te recognize it as such. He even understood the sentiment upon hearing a good portion of common sense coming from the stranger.   
He’d seen enough stupidity from the people they met that he found himself agreeing with the witcher’s general assessment of humanity more often than not, this show of wisdom was a surprisingly pleasant change. 

Others were coming back now, showing more chunks and strips of intestines and stomachs as they discussed their findings. Old wives’ tales and vague rumours went around, suspicious fellows on the road described as the townsfolk argued about who could be responsible and what they should do about it. 

Jaskier shared a look with the witcher at his side, blue eyes meeting yellow with a slight roll and a raised brow. 

They both knew how this would go, even if the villagers didn’t.   
The leaders of the town would ‘voluntell’ some poor sod -who’d either have the balls to refuse or would end up dead at the hands of whatever was causing this whole problem- then decide that parting with some coin to get a professional to do the job might be a grand idea after all. 

The bard decided to take pity on them when the first names started to be called out, and started humming the tune of his most famous song.

It had spread through the continent like wildfire, moving faster between towns and cities that Jaskier himself. Other bards and storytellers had taken it up fairly quickly, recognizing the makings of a classic, and Jaskier now found people he’d never met of performed for singing his songs fairly often. 

Someone had clearly sung it here in this tiny shithole of a town too, as the humming had exactly the effect he’d been hoping for.   
The discussion ceased, attention focused on himself and his witcher after only a few lines. 

“Right. Now that I have your attention… Might I suggest actually tossing some coins to this very capable witcher here rather than trying to solve this mess yourselves? Not that I think you incapable or anything, but well… guilds and professions are there for a reason. No point in trying to do everything yourself eh?” 

He clapped Geralt on the back when the man didn’t break the silence he’d so very kindly created for him. Trust the bloody witcher to wait for others to come to him rather than offering his services. How the bloke managed to earn a living before meeting him was beyond Jaskier. 

“See this? This is a man _made_ for this sort of things.”

That got things going again, the villagers discussing in hissed whispers they probably thought too low for the visitors to hear. Too bad they didn’t know how very acute a witcher’s hearing was. Even Jaskier hadn’t known that until Geralt had ridiculed him for a rather awkward faux-pas on the other side of a very loud tavern. 

“They don’t have coin.” the witcher said when the townsfolk didn’t seem to be able to reach a conclusion, his limited patience with humanity apparently already worn out as he grabbed a stirrup in preparation of hoisting himself back into the saddle. “We’ll find another village for that bed you’re longing for.” 

Jaskier wasn’t going to let his chances of a night in a proper room slip away without a fight though.   
“Is that the problem? We could do a different kind of payment right? A few nights in a good bed, food, a farrier’s services for Roach…”   
He didn’t really think Geralt would refuse a request for aid anyway, if the villagers here had the guts to ask for it. Witchers didn’t work for free as a rule, but _his_ witcher had proven himself to be quite willing to bend rules when it suited him. He just needed to goad the townsfolk in the right direction. 

The farmer that had first met them got the hint. 

“We can offer them a place in the inn, right Errol?” he said, looking over Jaskier’s shoulder to a man behind them. “And Ravid could shoe their mount whilst we wait, there aren’t many horses left in town anyway…” 

It turned out that there was indeed very little coin to be offered, the village’s greatest wealth currently burning away in the shape of dead livestock. The people were happy enough to offer beds and food though, along with repairs of their equipment and, possibly the thing that pushed Geralt over into accepting, as much fresh hay as Roach could eat.   
He grumbled about silver tongued bards that assumed too much as they were led to the stables, but Jaskier just grinned and made sure to mention the fact that there’d be ale and potatoes waiting for them. 

They went out to find the whatever it was that was screwing with the water as soon as the sun rose the next morning. The town was still mostly silent as they moved between hovels and houses, the stench of burned meat still heavy in the air.   
A small boat lay waiting for them, just big enough for two men and Geralt’s pack. Jaskier quickly claimed the prow of the tiny thing, leaving the witcher to pole them out into the river. 

The river was so shallow that the ford the town was built around was barely necessary, but Geralt was nevertheless grateful for the boat and the long pole that came with it as he watched thick globs of yellow muck float by as he pushed them along upstream.   
His body was used to all sorts of toxins and substances a common human wouldn’t be able to withstand, but he misliked the look of this. There were still plenty of things that would harm a witcher just as easily as it had harmed the sheep whose remains were still smouldering behind them, and he wasn’t keen to try wading or swimming if he didn’t absolutely have to.

They soon left all signs of habitation behind, the river flowing along banks of untouched forests and fields. The smell of death was heavy in the warm summer air, the fish rotting among the reeds giving off a stench even worse than burning sheep.   
Jaskier’s voice was the only thing to break the silence, birds and beasts wise enough to leave the area. 

The sun was high in the cloudless sky by the time the landscape changed. The river had steadily been getting narrower, rocks and boulders making it harder to navigate as they moved upstream. Now there were so many obstacles that it became impossible to continue, even their tiny boat too wide to safely navigate between them. 

“We’ll drag it up onto the shore and continue on foot.” Geralt said as he cast about for a safe place to land and something to tie the thing to. “Whatever it is will be near the river, we shouldn’t have any trouble finding it.” 

“That is just…. inviting the fates to screw with us you know?” Jaskier said as he hopped out onto a stretch of mostly rock-free bank and caught the rope the witcher tossed in his direction. “Famous last words between two heroes who lost their way, never to be seen again…” 

“I half expect you to never come back every time you go off to fuck someone. The fates will already have to get in line to finish you for your bad screwing choices, they wouldn’t settle for just letting you die of exposure.” 

They were still squabbling an hour later, Jaskier talking and coming up with increasingly creative insults of his companion’s boringly safe choices in screwing which were answered with a great variation of grunts and snorts, when the bard’s mouth was suddenly covered with a gloved hand. 

“Quiet now. Something up ahead.” 

The hand stayed plastered against his face until he nodded, fingers tight against his nose and jaw, as if Geralt didn’t trust him to know that that tone of voice meant unquestioning obedience. 

Jaskier did let out an annoyed huff when the hand left his face, but he kept his tongue. He knew the dozens of different ways the witcher could growl and grunt by now, and this one meant that the man had sniffed out something but didn’t know what it was.   
Those tended to be the times he’d either send Jaskier off with Roach or tell him to hide whilst riding off to scout ahead.   
There was no horse now though, so he just placed a finger against his lips and pressed the bag of potions and supplies in the bard’s hands before moving off, Jaskier following as quietly as he could. 

The forest was still far too silent.  
There was no birdsong, no rustle of leaves as small mammals fled from their presence. The twigs beneath their feet and the breeze in the treetops were the only sounds to be heard as they moved along, Geralt clutching his medallion in his fist, Jaskier the bag to his chest.   
It was deceptively peaceful amongst the trees, the only things telling them that something bad was going to happen some time soon being the silence and the tremor in the silver wolf’s head against the witcher’s breast. 

They walked on, following game trails when they could and pushing their way through the undergrowth when there weren’t any until they came upon one of the oddest scenes Jaskier had ever seen in his many, _many_ adventures with Geralt.

In the river, amongst the rocks, was a group of _things_.   
They didn’t look all that threatening, hopping about and splashing water at each other with their thick, flabby arms like a bunch of kids at play. Kids looking like overly large maggots with limbs, but still…. 

“What _are_ those?” he asked, crouching behind the convenient boulder the witcher had picked to hide behind. 

“Don’t know. Some kind of bloedzuiger perhaps? But those don’t secrete their acids like this…” 

They watched the creatures for a while as they played and wrestled.   
Drops and chunks of the yellow goo they’d seen on the river went flying whenever one was hit by its fellows, the substance welling up from their skin like sweat before dripping down to create a shimmering film on the water. It reminded Jaskier of the thick yellow fat that lay under the skin of birds that had gorged themselves on a farmer’s grains, forming the globs they’d been seeing for most of the morning as the current broke it up.

The fact that they seemed to be playing did make their job a bit more difficult though. Witchers didn’t generally kill sentient beings, not if they could help it.   
Jaskier had been around one of them long enough to know they couldn’t always uphold that code -some people were foolish enough to force their hand and sometimes there was just no other option- but he also knew the aftermath of those instances. Geralt’d be moody and upset for days, either turning to drink or taking unnecessary risks until he got the anger out of his system. 

He didn’t seem willing to take the chance now. 

“Stay here. I’ll go see if they’re intelligent.”

A quick squeeze of his shoulder and off the witcher went, booted feet silent on the forest floor. Jaskier watched as he snuck closer to the creatures, moving from rock to tree to boulder to stay out of their sight as long as possible until he was close enough to be heard without having to shout. 

It turned out that they weren’t intelligent, or a least, not able or willing to speak. 

They were bloody fast though.   
The first of the tings to notice the man screeched, a shrill multi-toned sound like a hurdy gurdy being played by a deaf child.   
That was apparently a signal for the others to run, loping off like mud-filled sacks on boneless legs. 

It was also answered by a very similar but much louder cry, the very sound shaking the boulder Jaskier was hiding behind. 

He just about heard the ‘Fuck’ coming from Geralt’s direction before the man disappeared off into the trees, sword in hand and running after the creatures. The bard cursed as well -much more creatively- and followed, trying not to jostle the bag he was carrying too badly.

The trail as such was easy to follow. Water and drops of shiny yellow muck filled up the prints left by the creatures and the deafening screech echoed around the forest again just as he rounded a corner into a small clearing. 

He repeated his curses, and added several more for good measure.

The things in the water _were_ apparently kids, or at least the young of their species. And like all kids, they had run straight to mummy when a big bad witcher had disturbed their play. 

The creatures in the river had been the size of very large dogs or small ponies at most, almost cute in their flabby, otherworldly grossness.   
Mummy most definitely was not cute in any sense of the word. 

Jaskier watched as the creature hoisted itself up out of the small pond at the center of the clearing, massive arms and legs sinking down into the forest floor as it made its way to the man that had threatened its young. Geralt simply stood there, waiting with the tip of his sword against the ground and his other hand raised in the sign Jaskier recognized as the one the witcher used whenever pissed off husbands or fathers managed to find him hiding behind his very best friend, only to be send off on their way with a glazed look in their eyes.

It didn’t seem to do much to improve the creature’s temper though.   
It screamed again, revealing a massive mouth with far too many teeth, and charged. 

The ground shook with every footfall of the beast, rocks and boulders rolling from their places like marbles on a jostled table.   
Geralt jumped away a fraction of a second before one massive arm slammed into the place he’d been standing just before. He took the moment of distraction to slash at the limb with his sword, a quick flick almost too fast for Jaskier to see. It didn’t seem to do much, the flesh just bending with the force behind the blade rather than being cut by it’s razor edge.

That was the moment the young ones joined the fray. They suddenly didn’t seem all that cute anymore, throwing themselves at the witcher who barely managed to get away in time to keep from being buried in angered monsters. 

A shockwave from the man’s left hand sent them flying, landing in a jumbled heap of shapeless limbs at the edge of the filthy pond, giving him time to dance out of the way from their parent when it tried to grab his legs. 

The slash of the sword he answered the attack with didn’t do any more than the previous one had, nor did the shockwave he sent at it’s belly. It just sort of _rippled_ , like a bowl of pudding that was dumped onto a table with too much force, and was rewarded by an arm slamming into his side hard enough to send him flying. 

Jaskier winced at the dry ‘crack’ of a sapling tree breaking clean off as Geralt smacked into it, man and treetop crashing to the ground together in a shower of leaves and branches. He knew how much the witcher’s body could take by now and didn’t worry overly much about these sort of things that would likely kill a normal man, but he was also fairly sure that Geralt would be properly black and blue by the time they got back to the village. 

The monster followed, taking another swipe as soon as it was in range. The fallen bits of tree went flying, but the witcher was fast enough to jump up and over the arm, pivoting in place as soon as he landed to give a quick jab with his sword. 

That seemed to have more effect than the slashes had had. The sharp tip of the weapon bit through the skin where the edge hadn’t managed to, sinking down into the muscle beneath. 

A bellow of rage and pain sounded as Geralt drew the sword out, thick red blood welling up from the wound as he ducked away from a punch that created a pit the size of a bathtub into the muddy ground. 

It became a dance of punches and stabs after that. The witcher was faster than the creature, feet barely touching the ground in between jumps and rolls an pivots, but the massive bulk and brute strength of the thing made up for its lack of speed.   
Several of the young ones seemed to have survived the shockwave that had sent them flying and joined the battle on wobbly legs, getting in the way of both combatants and penning Geralt in with their bodies as their parent tried to smash him into a pulp. 

The smaller versions seemed easier to kill, their skin and muscle parting cleanly wherever the witcher’s sword touched them. The number of shapeless limbs and heads lying around was quickly growing, until only Geralt and the massive adult were left standing. 

Both were bleeding, the witcher’s hair a sticky rat’s nest of blood and twigs, his armour covered in a glossy layer of gore and yellow muck.   
The beast didn’t look all that much better, but didn’t seem to be overly bothered by its wounds. A great sweep of its arm send several corpses into the air, Geralt rolling out of the way and getting even more bits and pieces stuck to his person in the process. He stabbed up as the monster tried to make a grab for him with its tentacle-like arm,the sword biting deeply with the combined force. 

Another bellow, blood and acid streaming down to paint the churned up grass a gruesome red, and a final stab up into its belly, and the battle was over. The creature slumped down, dragging furrows into the earth with its flailing limbs as it died.

Jaskier was scrambling up and into the clearing even before the last twitches had left the monster’s corpse, leaving the safety of his hiding place to join the witcher in the clearing. He’d just opened his mouth to start asking questions when the man started running, pelting past him and disappearing off between the trees where they’d come from before. 

The bard looked back, saw nothing that would make a witcher run like the hounds of hell were on his feet, and decided that following would probably be the wisest thing to do. 

He hurried off, following the clear tracks Geralt had left in his haste.   
The sound of running water was soon audible, as were grunts and splashes. All sorts of horrid scenes went running through his head at the noises, most of those of witchers torn apart by monsters and leaving their poor, poor bards to fend for themselves. He had plenty of material by now to form creative scenes without having to make anything up like had done at the start of his career, life with Geralt had quickly filled up the holes in his knowledge of the things that liked to eat people for breakfast. 

None of those scenario’s prepared him for the actual scene he found when he finally caught up with his companion though. 

He first came across bits and pieces of armour scattered along the trail of footprints. Gloves and a rumpled tunic were flung over a rock some steps away from the breastplate, a boot standing close by. The boot’s partner lay several paces further, along with a pair of inside-out leather trousers. 

Geralt meanwhile, was buck naked, and rolling over again and again in the stream. It was far too shallow to cover him, and there was still the occasional blob of yellow floating past him. The witcher didn’t seem to mind though, dunking his head as deep as it would go and splashing water over the skin he didn’t manage to submerge. 

A loud ‘Don’t touch that!’ startled Jaskier into dropping the trousers he’d just lifted, letting it fall back onto the mossy ground with a wet squelch. 

“Much as I appreciate the fact that you suddenly seem to have discovered the pleasure of not having your person covered in monster guts, your clothes desperately need that river too if you want them to be even remotely wearable again. Gods, that stench is awful, almost as bad as selkiemore…” 

“It’s covered in acid. Push it in the water with a stick or something, but don’t let it touch your skin.” 

“Oh. Right. That actually sounds like a good idea. I’d rather not have my hands looking like those sheep, I’d have to teach you to play the lute to accompany my voice...” 

A sturdy, forked stick was easily found, as was a spot a little downstream from Geralt where Jaskier could hook the clothes behind the roots of a tree so the current could wash them clean. The armour and boots came next, the silver studs and buckles barely visible underneath the glossy layer of drying gore. 

Geralt was crouching beside the bag of supplies Jaskier had been carrying around all day by the time the bard came back, clumsily rummaging around. It afforded the younger man a great view of the line of his back and buttocks, and the mass of blisters and angry red patches that had taken over the usually colourless skin. 

“Damn, that looks positively horrid.” 

“Thank you. Now be useful and get that blasted chamomile cream, I can barely move my fingers.”

Jaskier gently pushed the witcher back, mindful of the blisters that were forming along his neck and shoulders too, and took over the hunt for the porcelain pot he knew contained the ointment Geralt used on sore feet and to soothe skin that had been chafed raw.   
He sincerely doubted it would do much for this kind of damage, or that there would be enough for the amount of affected skin, but he wasn’t the one who cooked up all these weird alchemical substances, so he just grabbed the pot and tugged the cork off. 

He did slap away Geralt’s hand when the man tried to take the cream from him though. 

“Get your grabby hands off it!” he said as he quickly tucked it behind his back. “There’s barely enough as it is, and not to be crude or rude or anything, but your hands look like you’ve stuck them into a beehive, it’ll be more efficient if I do the smearing.” 

Jaskier took the grunt he received in answer as consent, and stuck his fingers into the oily mass. 

He started with Geralt’s face, smoothing the cream along his forehead and cheek, carefully dabbing along his right eye. “That could have cost you your sight if it had gone half an inch more to the left.” he said as he stroked with a single finger, covering the eyelid with a thin layer. The scent of chamomile hung around them like a cloud as he worked along the witcher’s body, going from face to shoulders, from chest and back to arms and hands. 

His armour had provided some protection, but there were still plenty of places where the acid had seeped in through the seams between layers of leather. Geralt hadn’t bothered with bringing the gauntlets he wore when expecting a heavy fight, and his thin regular gloves had offered little protection. Tugging them off had torn many of the forming blisters, so Jaskier took special care with the raw skin, covering the appendages with the small supply of clean bandages that they routinely carried along with Geralt’s potions. 

Everything seemed to smell of chamomile now. It was a fragrance Jaskier associated with baths and late evenings by a fire after a long day’s walk. He was fairly sure he wouldn’t be able to smell it without thinking about crouching down to slather his friend’s bottom with scented cream in some godforsaken forest ever again. 

Geralt had slipped into something approaching meditation by the time Jaskier scraped the last bit of cream from the rim of the pot and spread it out over a blistered knee. His eyes were half lidded, staring off into nothing as the bard got up, ignoring the creaking of his knees and the muttering about how many days they were going to stay in nice, comfortable beds once they got back to the town. 

Jaskier went about gathering the witcher’s things quietly, wringing out his clothes as best he could and folding it all into a big pile. Geralt could put it on once the cram had dried, they’d carry the stuff until then. 

He even went so far as to clean the very gross coating of already browning blood from the sword that had been propped up against a rock. Geralt didn’t like it when Jaskier touched it, but he disliked leaving it filthy even more, so the bard was fairly sure it would earn him a beer rather than a glare. 

He eventually had to prod the witcher awake. They’d had to get moving if they wanted to get back to the village before night fell, and a witcher who hissed in pain upon picking up his clothes would probably be useless against all the things that went bump in the night so Jaskier was _very_ sure he wanted to get there before all those things left their burrows and lairs.

Jaskier led the way, trying to find a route with as few bushes and narrow spots as possible. A new song was already forming, heroic and moving, the tragedy of a town losing its livelihood countered by the witcher kindly taking on the contract for food and lodging, touched by their plight as he was. 

If the word ‘chamomile ended up in the refrain of the song… Well, only the two of them would know why it would always make a glare appear on Geralt’s face as surely as it caused a grin on Jaskier’s. Some secrets stayed between friends.


End file.
